


Helpless

by Severina



Category: Oz (1997)
Genre: Community: hardtime100
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-17
Updated: 2009-11-17
Packaged: 2017-10-09 17:16:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/89771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing can be worse than this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Helpless

**Author's Note:**

> Episode 102  
> Prompt 13: Under The Cover of Night (LJ's Hardtime100 Community)

The mattresses are thin and lumpy, the pillow too small and too soft, the blanket rough. Toby tugs the blanket up over his shoulders and tries to get comfortable, but with every move his body makes the bedsprings creak and groan. He holds his breath, his eyes wide open and staring at the underside of the top bunk, sure that at any moment Vern's going to wake up, swing his legs over the side of the bed, demand things of him.

Horrible things. Degrading, disgusting things.

He doesn't know how he got here, quivering in the dark with the taste of come in his mouth and a swastika burned on his ass. He shivers beneath the blanket and tries to figure it out, because he was never good at sports or quick with a droll comeback, but he was smart. He should be able to decipher this mess.

* ~ * ~ *

When he hits Kathy Rockwell with his car, hears the thud of her body hitting the windshield hard enough that it rattles his bones, he thinks that nothing can be worse than this. And unlike the stories his wife reads in bed every night or the procedural crime dramas he mocks every day at the office, the impact -- of her body, of what he'd done -- doesn't instantly sober him up. He sits, blinking, staring dumbly at her sweet young face framed by pretty blonde braids, and his first thought is only that he probably isn't going to make it to the staff meeting in the morning.

He is still clutching the steering wheel, gaping and staring into Kathy Rockwell's dead eyes, when a man tugs open the car door. Toby has a confused image of the man -- tan Bermuda shorts, Budweiser T-shirt -- reaching inside, massive hands clenched into fists, and then Toby is spilling from the car, wiping at his face with his hand, mumbling around a mouth filled with gin-soaked cotton.

"I didn't see her. She came out of nowhere."

The man has initially recoiled in disgust -- Toby is used to that, knows the signs well: the down-turned mouth, the wrinkled nose, the disparaging look in the eyes -- but then he steps forward, fists a hand in Toby's shirt and pulls him upright. Vitriol spits in his face, and Toby takes it, mouth still hanging open, shoulders rounded under the weight of all that hate.

The man lets him go without warning and Toby staggers against the car, his knees weak, his mouth dry. "I didn't see her; she came out of nowhere."

There are sirens, police cars. A breathalyser.

He puts his hand on the chest of one of the officers, palm flat. Tries to explain. "I didn't see her she came out of nowhere," he says.

The cops watch him with mouths drawn into hard lines.

"I-didn't-see-her-she-came-out-of-nowhere." A litany against this madness.

He has the right to remain silent, the right to an attorney, a lot of other rights that rattle around in his brain and make no sense. He is hauled into the backseat of a cruiser, cuffs chafing at this wrists. And it's only then that he begins to sober up. That he finally grasps the significance of what he's done.

Toby leans to the side and vomits all over the scuffed vinyl seat of the police car.

* * *

Toby has every confidence in his defence team.

He had made bail, of course, his father stepping up to the plate so that Toby and Gen wouldn't lose the house. So he shows up in court every day, designer suit neatly pressed, briefcase in hand, the upwardly mobile young lawyer who wouldn't hurt a fly -- at least not intentionally. His anxious wife and parents take seats in the gallery, and one of his father's partners handles the case even though it's obvious that Harrison Beecher is calling the shots. Toby makes notes and huddles with his lawyer even though Toby himself has never seen the inside of a courtroom in a criminal case.

Toby takes the stand against his lawyer's advice.

He tells the court that he is sorry, sincerely sorry, for his actions.

He blames alcohol.

He asks the judge's help to cure his addiction.

Judge Lima has a Magicuts haircut and too-thin lips that aren't augmented by the red slash of her lipstick. When she pronounces him guilty and gives him the maximum sentence, Toby thinks that nothing can be worse than this.

* * *

Toby lies still and lets Vern use his belt to tie his hands to the bedpost.

He's already been stripped, laid bare-ass on the bed for the entire cell block to see, and Vern has told him what will happen if he disobeys. He thought he knew fear -- in the police station, being formally charged with vehicular manslaughter; in holding cells filled with desperate men; in Judge Lima's courtroom with the bang of a gavel. Now he knows what real fear is, and it freezes his blood, immobilizes his limbs far more effectively than belts or shackles.

There can be nothing worse than this.

Toby grits his teeth when the first match sears his skin, bites the inside of his cheek and chokes back the tears. The vile stench of burning flesh -- his burning flesh -- fills the pod, and he swallows back the bile that rises to his throat, clenches his fists and trembles with the strain of staying motionless.

He's helpless. There's nothing he can do against these monsters.

And he hates himself for that.

* ~ * ~ *

It's only when he feels wetness on his cheek that Toby realizes he's started crying. It's how he has to do everything now -- silently.

He carefully raises a hand to his face and wipes away the tears; he gives away enough with handing Vern more ammunition with which to mock him, hurt him, humiliate him. He sniffs quietly in the dark, and stiffens when he hears Vern shift above him. He holds his breath again, counts to ten, prays fervently.

When Vern snuffles in his sleep and begins snoring, Toby is thankful that at least one of his prayers has been answered. It's the only one.

He relaxes, just a little.

And when Vern's snores continue unabated, Toby rolls over cautiously and sneaks a hand under his mattress. Searches. For a long moment he can't find what he's looking for, and he bites his bottom lip, silently curses Vern, curses the CO's, curses whoever has come into his pod, into his life, and stolen the one thing that's keeping him going. And when the tips of his fingers finally light on the thin stack of papers, it is all he can do not to crush them in his fist with relief.

He turns his head, looks out into the darkness beyond the glass to check for hacks. Only when he's confirmed that it's safe does he move carefully back on the bed, shift onto his side, and pull the photos up to his chest.

Holly, in her Easter dress. Holly and Gary sitting on the grass in the park. Gary with an ice cream cone. Harry, sweet little Harry, yawning in his bassinette.

Toby brushes his fingers against the faces of his children, promises them wordlessly that he'll figure it out. And in the meantime, he'll survive. For them.


End file.
